It takes 1200 calories and 63 grams of fat to kill a colony of evil gnomes

I’m piggybacking on Michelle’s fast food shame. I didn’t have a New Year’s resolution to eat a more healthful diet. (I just have the same resolutions I have every year—Listen to more Fleetwood Mac and stay out of prison.)

I simply avoid mass produced triple bypass snacks instinctually as daily survival, the will to live. But yesterday something inside of me snapped. A deep bottomless-pit-hunger seized my midsection. Gnomes were using pick hammers to mine precious gemstones inside my stomach. I couldn’t just allow this to happen, could I?

I craved that greasy, physically ill feeling only fast food could provide.

And then one of my friends G chatted me up about a Cheesy Gordita Crunch. He used all the hot buzz words—cheesy, melty, crunchy. Surely there was a Taco Bell somewhere in Manhattan! But I didn’t have time to look! The gnomes! Right across the street was a closer, even greasier establishment. (I once dissed them in a live freestyle rap battle, so I won’t name them again.)

I didn’t really know what I was ordering. I just picked something random from the menu that looked like this:

After eating 1/3 of this burger I didn’t really feel like a person anymore as the grease danced around my insides. But there was no turning back. I picked off all the bacon, scraped off the cheese and asked, “Why did I do this to myself?” I’m pretty sure the gnomes are dead now. Mission accomplished.